A gangster bitchslaps his colon.

So fucking what.

I spent the weekend wrenching on my goddamn Harley. I spent my weekend wrenching on my Harley, trying to put that son of a bitch together before my kid gets here. I spent the weekend putting that s.o.b. together while I was wishing that I was in Chicago, instead of sweating my balls off in Burbank.

The EconoHog is complete.

Fuck you, you fuckin' fuck.

I spend my Sunday in absolute joy, knowing that I finally got my bike done, my son, my wife and soon-to-be baby are healthy and come Monday morning, I'll see some great pictures and hear some awesome stories about the ChiLan.

Instead I get shit on. WE get shit on.

I've been here for a long fucking time. I'll be damned if I haven't made more friends and heard more kind things here than I would have if I had met the entire population of my hometown.

Until yesterday.

I went last year to the ChiLan. In the middle of the drinking and debauchery, I stayed sober because I knew that if I drank, it would be because I was mourning the ransacking of my life. While I was having a great time last year in Chicago with my boys Boogie and NoGay, my ex-wife was cleaning out my house. I went to Chicago to escape it. And it was fucking awesome.

This year, my life has completely turned around. My home is full of love, my children will be happy. The things that really matter, the stuff that really holds a person's shit together, they are wired tight.

And yet, I gotta deal with this absolute level of retardation.

How can a motherfucker say he's torn?

How can he say he's torn without fucking making every asshole he's grown close to in the last THREE FUCKING YEARS angry?

You don't.

You carry the anger and you try not to fucking start random fistfights with a that strange guy on the corner that will very likely beat the piss out of you.

Sometimes it works. Sometimes you ask around to find Bayman's address so you can kick him in his bleeding mangina. If he were any kind of a gamer, he wouldn't suck and cry about the Duty beating his ass.

and that JPNOR motherfucker who steals sigs to make shitbox fucking avatars and runs a soulless hole of a telemarketing shop. His career path reflects his morals. Empty and fucking worth pitying.

Other times, you roll out and thank the folks that you've grown close to and hope nobody gets mad becuase you've kept unpopular friends. You try and stay true to the people that are real.

The rest is internet retardism.

You know who you are.

And if you're wondering, "Is it me?", It probably is.

If you ain't been real, if you ain't been adult, you best not find me in RFL. We ain't got shit to say to each other.

I know who my people are. Or, at least I did. Prove yourself, or fuck yourself.

Today, I sit on the shitter at work. Unbelievably, it was one of the most clear moments of the last few days.

I sit taking a pretty good dumper due to the crap food I've been eating lately. As I sit there, a huge pair of shoes attached to a sweaty large body plops down on the shitter next over, clearly breaking man law.

The sweaty feet commences to talking to his asshole.

"Fuck you, motherfucker! Unnghh! Shit, that's hot...Unnnghh! Fuck yeah! You want some more? Urrghh!"

This goes on for about five minutes, with foot stomping and some serious heaving. There was a bit of cheek squeaking and a really large volume of feces, varying in consistency from water to stone. It's rough work on this guy's asshole.

And a epiphany strikes.

It's the most intelligent conversation I've had in three days.

15859 views.

Ain't nothin' to a G.